


Why We Fight

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Shh, just come. In my ass." And inspired by kirstenlouise’s Office AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I pick things up and put them down.  
> Notes: AU. Title from "Buffy: the Vampire Slayer."

  
“. . . and I’ll  _drink_  all the motherfucking coffee I want,  _whenever_  I motherfucking want!”  
  
There’s dead silence in the bedroom. Dom has paused in the act of drawing down the covers on his side of the bed and he blinks at Nash as if he’s gone insane. For a moment, Nash can see this fight from his lover’s point of view, clear as day, and wonders himself if he is in fact losing his marbles.  
  
Finally, Dom sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. (Nash wishes him luck, because Nash? Is out for blood, tonight. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s had a bad day at work or if he’s just in the mood for rough hate-sex sex: the kind they never have.) “Wait—why are you mad at me? You said you were sick of waking up tired in the morning, and I just said that if you drank less coffee, you’d get to sleep earlier and wake up feeling better. That’s all.”  
  
Nash fights the urge to stick his tongue out. “ _No_ , that’s  _not_  all, Dominic—you’re treating me like a child, again!”  
  
Now, Dom looks confused. “When do I treat you like a child, Nash?”  
  
Nash huffs, trying to cover the fact that he’s drawing a blank. Despite the way he acts sometimes, Dom never treats him like anything less than an equal.  
  
Like less than a partner.  
  
“When you said all that . . . stuff . . . about . . . the coffee!” Nash stands arms akimbo because—if it worked for Yul Brenner, the same principle should apply to him.  
  
Theoretically.  
  
But evidently not in practice because now, Dom looks downright baffled. “You mean the stuff I said just now? For the first time ever?”  
  
Nash’s eyes narrow challengingly and Dom sighs again, walking around the bed to stand patiently before Nash. “Okay, what are we  _really_  fighting about, this time?”  
  
“Not a damn thing, Dominic.” Nash laughs angrily. “Fighting about shit would imply that we’re some kind of couple, or something.”  
  
“Uh . . . aren’t we?”  
  
Nash snorts. “Not according to you, Mr. Good-to-see-you-again-Brian-this-is-my- _friend_ -Nash-Yosman.”  
  
The befuddlement deepens then clears. “You mean Brian Stearns from  _last month_? My old racquetball partner— _that_  Brian?”  
  
Turning a blotchy, angry red, Nash nods, crossing his arms defensively, wondering where in the hell  _that'd_  come from. “That’d be the one.”  
  
Dom rolls his eyes. He’s been picking up Nash’s bad habits, lately. “You mean Brian Stearns, the guy I once saw hurl a slur at a gay couple he didn’t even know— _that_  Brian?”  
  
Pursing his mouth, Nash says nothing, sensing—rightly—that he’s lost the upper hand. If ever he had it.  
  
“Brian Stearns, who I stopped playing racquetball with because of that incident, and whom I still have the strong urge to punch out—never mind if he decides to open his fat, homophobic mouth about the man I love— _that_  Brian?”  
  
Biting his lip, Nash looks anywhere but into Dom’s intent gaze. Granted, he’s suspected for a while now that Dom loves him, but they’ve never talked about it—never said anything, although it should go without saying that Nash is absolutely nuts about Dom. “Could be.”  
  
“Ah. I see.” Dom nods then says something that’s completely out of leftfield. “I’m guessing it’s not that you have a burning urge for me to tell random bigots that we’re lovers so much as you want me to start telling people I know . . . friends and colleagues?”  
  
His anger draining away, at least his anger at Dom, Nash bites his lip again and studies Dom’s stupid wallpaper. “Maybe.”  
  
Dom exhales heavily.  
  
“Look, I . . .  _no one_  knows I’m with you. Not even my father. God,  _especially_  not my father. You have no idea how mortifying telling him is gonna be.” When Nash’s face falls, Dom’ quickly backtracks. “God, I’m not good at explaining myself at all—I didn’t mean telling him about _you_ —”  
  
“Oh, no, I get what you mean,” Nash says softly, kicking himself for his own gullibility. Had he really entertained the idea that someone like  _Dom_  could love  _him_? His own stupidity and sense of embarrassment make him want to lash out; and since he’s not big on impulse control, he does. “You mean the only person you’re more ashamed of than me is  _you_.”  
  
“ _No_ , Nash—“ Dom paces to the window, then back. But he stops short, as if afraid to approach Nash and he looks conflicted in a way Nash has never seen him. “Listen, my father and I haven’t had a real conversation since he gave me The Talk, and told me not to knock up my first girlfriend. So I wouldn’t even begin to know where to start—“  
  
“How about: ‘Hiya, dad, I’m gay.’” But despite his flippancy, Nash realizes he’s the last person who should be giving anyone advice on coming out for the first time. After all, the first time  _he_ came out, at the ripe old age of fifteen, his folks had kicked him out—not that that had been such a great loss for either party.   
  
And though Nash knows Dom’s relationship with his father isn’t a close or necessarily loving one, and that Dom hasn’t been dependent on his father in over fifteen years, he wouldn’t wish getting disowned on anyone. Especially not on Dom.  
  
“. . . not that easy for me, babe,” Dom is saying apologetically, his hands held out like he’s reasoning with an obstreperous client. “My father’s never approved of a damn thing I’ve ever done with my life, and it . . . hurts. But to have him level that disapproval at the best thing in my life . . . I don’t know that I could forgive him for that. I love you too much to have him—or anyone—say anything bad about us.”  
  
Nash uncrosses his arms to tug on his too-long hair. “Stop it, Dom!”  
  
“Stop what?” Dom takes a step closer and Nash takes a step back, his own hands held out.  
  
“Stop saying you love me!” he growls, and Dom looks both befuddled  _and_  miserable, now. “I’m not a goddamn  _girl_! You can’t just fling the l-word around to make me forget you’re too fucking much of a coward to tell people about us!”  
  
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Nash just glares and Dom glares right back. “Well, I’m not. I _love_  you more than anything in the world, and I would never just say something like that to you and not mean it.” He’s still holding his hands out, but now, it’s in supplication. “Please believe me: I  _love you_ —love being with you, love everything  _about_  you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, if you love it so much, then maybe you should put a ring on it, champ,” Nash says sarcastically, crossing his arms again, trying to figure out whether he wants to make Dom suffer more, or whether he just wants to go back to his own place and brood for a few days. Though the idea of being away from Dom for that long after nearly a year attached at the hip is . . . disconcerting.  
  
In fact, Nash is wondering if he shouldn’t just let this whole thing slide, and skip straight to the make-up sex. After all, can he really blame Dom for not wanting to tell people—especially his fucking  _father_ —that he’s pity-fucking some scruffy, too-young, foul-mouthed, GED drop-out?  
  
So he couldn’t be more shocked when Dom smiles a little, ironically, and moves closer. Till they’re only inches apart and he’s looking down into Nash’s eyes as gravely as he ever has.  
  
Then, oh, then, he goes down smoothly on one knee, as if he’s about to give Nash a blowjob. But instead he takes his class ring off his pinky, takes Nash’s left hand, and slides the slightly too large ring on Nash’s ring finger.  
  
“I’ve got about fifty-jillion vacation days saved up,” he says quietly, hopefully, kissing Nash’s knuckles and meeting his gob-smacked gaze. “Wanna run away to Vancouver with me, gorgeous, and make it legal?”  
  
Nash blinks. Like, a  _lot_. Looks at the big ring on his finger, then looks down into Dom’s unguarded eyes again.  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks numbly, wondering how the hell an argument about his caffeine intake had gotten so completely derailed. Dom tilts his head, still smiling that wry smile.  
  
“I have no sense of humor, Nash. You know that.” Dom’s smile turns hapless and pleading, and he stands up, pulling Nash into his arms. “I can’t promise that I’ll be telling my dad any time soon. I’m just not ready. But if you want, we can start telling our friends whenever you want. Tomorrow, even. Is that enough—at least for now?”  
  
Too dazed to think or speak—for once—Nash looks around their bedroom. Well, Dom’s bedroom, but Nash’s spent more time in it over the past eleven months than he’s spent in his apartment since he moved into it.  
  
Maybe it’s because of that that Dom’s bedroom, and Dom’s bed in particular, feels more like home than anyplace he’s ever lived.  
  
Or maybe it’s just  _Dom_  that feels like home, and everything else—even Dom’s expensive, insanely comfortable mattress—is just incidental.  
  
Which is absurd and sentimental, two things Nash never is. Or wasn’t, until he met Dominic Cobb. Now, he’s . . . Jesus, now he’s the kind of guy who remembers stupid things, like the date of the night they first met, the night they first sixty-nined, and the first time he rimmed Dom (which was also the night Dom first rimmed him back).  
  
He also remembers the first time Dom invited him over to spend the night, the first time Dom made him breakfast, the first time they slept together . . .  _just_  fell asleep together, too tired to do more than cuddle. . . .  
  
Now, Nash is the kind of guy who dates a man like Dom . . . a man who’s too handsome and gallant and  _good_  to even exist. Now, Nash is the kind of guy who let said good-guy-boyfriend-type person get him a job as a mailroom drone, for the express purpose of being near his honey all day long (with the more-than-occasional-nooner thrown in).  
  
 _Now_ , Nash is the kind of guy who gets proposed to by a man who’s ten times more than he’ll ever deserve.  
  
But fortunately for Nash, he’s also the kind of guy who’s smart enough to say  _yes_ , because let’s face it—he may not be good enough for Dom, but  _he_  damn sure ain’t gonna be the one to let  _Dom_ in on that little secret.  
  
Grinning, he slides off the ring and places it on the night table, his heart jumping at the way light reflects off the sapphire, embedded in silver . . . and when he turns to face Dom again, Dom’s frowning, Nash shakes his head quickly. “No, baby, I just don’t wanna lose it till I can get it sized. You’ve got hulk-fingers, like,  _whoa_.”  
  
That wry smile comes back. “Ahh. So is that a yes?”  
  
“No shit, Sherlock,” Nash puts his hands on Dom’s chest and slides them up to his broad shoulders. He’s afraid to meet those electric-blue eyes, so he stares, instead, at the uptight pattern on Dom’s Republican-red wallpaper. “You sure you’re not just . . . proposing to shut me up, are you?”  
  
Dom puts a finger under Nash’s chin and turns his face till their eyes meet. His own gaze is so earnest, intense, and  _sincere_. “You know I wouldn’t. I don’t base major life decisions on how much you yell at me.”  
  
Nash laughs anxiously. “Then boy are  _you_  not prepared for marriage, pal.”  
  
Which is worth a slight widening of that quintessential Dom-smile. “Do you know how beautiful you are when you’re flustered?”  
  
At this hint of sentimentality in normally stolid Dom, Nash rolls his eyes and shoves him away with a manly little jab to the shoulder. “Yeah, right, I’m beautiful like a baby’s laugh, or sunrise on a summer day. Don’t be such a  _puss_ , Dom. Shut up and undress me like you mean it.”  
  
And Dom does.  
  
Reverently, even, removing each article of clothing like it’s the shroud of fucking Turin: sweatpants, t-shirt, socks, underwear. His eyes catalogue every bit of Nash—as if he hasn’t seen him naked in years, as opposed to over their lunch break, in the janitor’s closet near the mailroom.  
  
(Well.  _Partially_  naked. From the waist down.)  
  
When Nash is undressed, he sprawls on their bed, stroking himself hard partly because he’s ridiculously horny, but mostly because Dom loves to watch him masturbate. And right now, what Dom wants, Dom gets. “Now you, baby. And put on a show for the future-wifey, huh?”  
  
Dom rolls his eyes again, but does as Nash asks with the same gravity that he does damn near everything: pajama top, pajama bottoms, and socks. He reveals every inch of skin like he’s savoring the actions. When he gets to his boxers he smirks a little—he knows how much Nash likes his dick . . . likes to look at it, touch it, take it—and removes them  _extra_  slow. . . .  
  
Then he’s tossing the boxers over his shoulder with unusual élan and grinning like an idiot. His dick’s already standing completely at attention, already wet at the tip and a deep brick-red.  
  
“Would you take my name?” he asks, all hope and haplessness again. For a few moments, Nash has no idea what Dom’s talking about. Then it dawns on him, and he chuckles, crooking his finger, beckoning Dom over.  
  
“Shh,  _baby_ , just come . . . in my ass.”  
  
Dom sighs, looking very put-upon, but a smile is tugging the corners of his mouth and he kneels on the bed between Nash’s immediately spread legs. “We’ve been doing this for  _how_  long, now? I think I know when and where you want me to come without you writing me instructions and drawing me a roadmap.”  
  
“It was a  _joke_ , Captain Sense-of-Humorlessness. You know—a joke, haha? Sheesh.” Nash quirks an eyebrow and rolls onto his stomach, feeling quite smug when Dom immediately palms the cheeks of his ass, murmuring his appreciation. Some guys are dick-men, sure, but Dom? Is an ass-man, all the way. And Nash just happens to be a dick-man, himself—and something of a size-queen, to boot. Luckily for them both, Dom’s got size to spare.  
  
 _It’s like we were made for each other_ , he thinks wonderingly, anticipating the delicious burn-stretch of Dom’s big, thick cock pushing into him. Just the thought breaks him out in goosebumps all over.  _I could literally do this forever with him._  
  
Not that, at twenty-two, Nash knows  _dick_  about  _forever_. He and Dom have been fucking for a less than a year—since the night they met, in fact. And it wasn’t exactly the most romantic starts . . . Dom had been just another drunken suit spending his paycheck at the karaoke bar Nash’d been working at. Nash had served Dom and his friends’ table for the whole night, noting that as the table got drunker, Dom’s electric-blue eyes lingered on him more and more.  
  
Nash honestly hadn’t thought anything would come of it—he occasionally got the ol’ hairy eyeball from drunken closet-cases: one of the hazards of being a non-hideous waiter in San Francisco.  
  
But fast forward to Nash’s fifteen minute break and the coatroom, to find said drunken suit with the electric-blue eyes, on his knees, giving Nash the worst, sloppiest, most enthusiastic blowjob he’d ever received in his young life. Nash hadn’t even minded that at the end, the suit’d done more choking and spitting than swallowing.  
  
Fast forward  _another_  twenty minutes and one aging, easily broken condom later and he and The Best Customer Ever were stepping out of the coatroom—Nash slipping Tori, the coatcheck girl, another fiver—Nash, grinning big and walking funny. The Customer was holding onto his fingers, letting himself be led like a happily shell-shocked puppy.  
  
Unfortunately the manager had been lying in wait just around the corner from the coatroom.  
  
Fast forward  _again_ , about three minutes into Ethan’s apology-slash-tirade at The Customer and Nash, respectively, and Nash had held up his hand, the one that The Customer wasn’t clutching at, to halt the kissing up and dressing down.  
  
Surprised, Ethan had stopped ranting.  
  
“Dude,” Nash had said, laughing. “You  _so_  need to get laid more often. But in lieu of that, go fuck yourself. I quit.”  
  
And he’d walked away while Ethan was still gaping. Sauntered to the coatroom to grab his jacket—wished Tori a bitchin’ evening—and let himself into the cool night air.  
  
It wasn’t until he’d gone to put his jacket on, that he realized The Customer was still glommed onto him, still dazedly wide-eyed.  
  
And he’d had come on his chin. It was a weirdly adorable look on such an angelically handsome face.  
  
“Sorry about your job,” The Customer had said, sounding like he meant it. Nash had smiled a bit, and pulled him close for a kiss—their first. He tasted his own come and Jack Daniels. It was a strangely compelling taste.  
  
“Easy come, easy go. I hated that fucking place, anyway.” Nash had shrugged, though he was already dreading facing the want-ads in the morning. “Say, what’s your name, baby?”  
  
“Uh—Dom,” Dom had answered, and Nash’s smile had turned into a full-on grin.  
  
“ _Dom_  as in  _Dominant_?”  
  
“Um—no—as in  _Dominic_ ,” Dom had all but squeaked as Nash licked the come off his chin. He’d been glancing around at passersby, who couldn’t have cared less if they tried. They  _were_  in San Francisco, after all.  
  
Nash had chuckled, winding his fingers into the lapel of Dom’s  _very_  expensive suit.  
  
“You’re lucky I have a soft spot for closet-cases, butch.” He’d slid his hands down Dom’s chest, and liked the definition he felt: not  _crazy_  buff, but definitely in shape. “I’m Nash.”  
  
“Pleased to, uh, meet you.” Dom had blushed, and Nash had suddenly felt both possessive and generous. He’d kissed Dom again, long enough for the whole world to get an eyeful . . . long enough for Dom to finally lose his sense of modesty and kiss back just as hungrily, his hands roaming over Nash’s back and ass, rubbing and squeezing.  
  
When Dom had started grinding against him, the beginnings of another hard-on poking Nash in the hip, he’d finally broken the kiss, laughing.  
  
“Wanna come back to my place and fuck, Dom-as-in-Dominic?”  
  
Dom had blushed again, deeper than before. It made him look even younger than Nash. “I, uh . . . you don’t beat around the bush,” he’d noted, but without anything like disapproval. No, it was more surprise and wariness, as if he thought Nash was just screwing around with him.  
  
“I don’t believe in wasting time.” Nash had worked his hand between them to squeeze Dom’s cock. There was more than a handful, which was  _nice_. “Now, I’m two months behind on my rent, unemployed, and horny. And I can only take care of one of those things tonight, capishce?”  
  
Dom’d winced and looked guilty. “I really  _am_  sorry about your job—“  
  
Nash’d cut him off by way of pecking him on the cheek, something they’d both seemed to be surprised by. “Don’t be, okay? That place was driving me ape-shit, anyway. If it weren’t you, it would’ve been something else a lot less fun. And speaking of fun . . . the offer to spend the rest of the night fucking me still stands. Hey, wanna know a secret?” He’d leaned in to nuzzle Dom’s neck. “I’m  _really_  bendy.”  
  
Dom had swallowed, cleared his throat then dragged Nash to the curb. He’d held up his free hand and a taxi had stopped almost immediately. Dom had opened the door for Nash and handed him into the cab, like some kind of  _gentleman_ , or something, which’d made  _Nash_  blush.  
  
“God, you’re so sexy,” Dom’d said, with drunken, flattering sincerity. Nash’d smirked his sexiest smirk.  
  
“Show, baby, don’t tell.”  
  
And he’d sat back, entirely too self-satisfied with the way Dom hustled around to the other side of the cab and slid in, practically gluing himself to Nash’s side again.  
  
He’d asked Nash where he lived, and when Nash told him,  _he’d_  told the driver in a voice that sounded remarkably steady. He’d even promised the driver a hefty tip if he could get them there within ten minutes.  
  
All this with his hand creeping up Nash’s thigh.  
  
“Yes,  _sir_!” The driver had said, peeling out into traffic with little regard for it. Dom’s hand on Nash’s thigh had tightened pleasantly and he’d leaned close to kiss Nash’s ear and whisper.  
  
“Gonna bend you every which way, all night long.”  
  
And Dom had.  
  
 _All_  night long.  
  
(If there was one thing Nash’d always liked, besides a man with a big dick, was a man who said he’d fuck all night, and actually lived up to that promise. . . .)  
  
Since that first night, they’d actually never slept apart.  
  
It’s kinda weird, but in a good way. And he’s learned the hard way to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Life had taught him from early on to take everything as it came: enjoying the good and weathering the bad.  
  
He means to keep doing that until the only thing he's weathering is six feet of dirt.  
  
In the meantime, Dom is preparing him. Too slowly, as always, the fucking cock-tease.  
  
“Will you  _hurry up_?” Nash demands irritably, more than a little embarrassed at his bout of nostalgia, even though Dom couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking. “You need to be inside me, like, ten minutes ago!”  
  
“ _Calm down_ , sweetheart,” Dom soothes, still fingering him, his other hand sweeping down Nash’s lower back. “You know I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“Well, maybe sometimes I  _want_  you to hurt me! Maybe I like a little pain with my pleasure!” Nash blurts out then bites his tongue too late.  
  
Silence and stillness makes him look over his shoulder. Dom is regarding him thoughtfully.  
  
“You’re serious?”  
  
Nash shrugs and blushes. “Well . . . yeah. It's not that I don't fucking  _love_  what we do, but sometimes . . . I wanna be fucked  _hard_. I mean, don’t fucking split me in two with that monster, but . . . you can stand to be a  _little_  rougher, you know? I won’t break.”  
  
Dom’s eyelids lower to half-mast, his eyes shuttered by dark-blond lashes. “Maybe . . . m-maybe I want you broken.” Electric-blue eyes meet his own for a brief moment before apparently studying the slight curve of Nash’s ass. Dom adds a fourth finger and all but forces them past the first ring of muscle, rotating them slowly, till Nash is hissing and moaning. “Maybe I want you b-broken open under me, begging and crying like a shameless whore to let you come.”  
  
Shocked into silence—Nash is the one who does the dirty-talk in their relationship, and  _it is filthy_  dirty-talk, the likes of which makes Dom blush and get hard faster than even a good hand-job—and white-noise of the brain, Nash can only stare, gape-mouthed and suddenly hard enough to pound nails.  
  
Then he’s grinning like an idiot . . . like a man whose dreams all just came true.  
  
“C’mere, hubby.” He crooks his finger again then gets on his knees and grips the headboard, well aware of the sight he makes, pale and built somewhat frail . . . and utterly at Dom’s mercy. He can all but hear Dom’s dick go  _sproing!_  And when Dom’s large hands find his ass again and begin to  _grip_ , he practically purrs. “ _Thaaaaat_ 's it. Now make wifey  _howl_.”  
  
And Dom does.  
  
 _All_  night long.


	2. The Fifth Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the inception_kink prompt: Cock worship. But it got away from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don’t own, so don’t sue.  
> Notes: AU. A prequel to "Why We Fight."

“Good evening! My name is Nash, and I’ll be your waiter—” I place the basket of cheesy breadsticks in the center of the table and nearly lose a few fingers when two of the suits dive right in. “—what can I get you gents for starters?”  
  
Four of the five suits at table fourteen all start to talk at once of course, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. I’ve already gotten The Insubordination Lecture from Ethan twice this week. I’m not aiming for thrice.  
  
But I’m nothing, if not a professional. I can easily get two of their drinks noted down on my pad—the predictable stuff for suits on a Friday: Michelob and Heineken—before turning on my professional, shit-eating grin.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I pretend to laugh heartily, and a little more of my soul dies. “One at a time. Now, I’ve got one Heinie, a Michelob Light. . . .”  
  
One of the suits, a buff, broad-shouldered guy, flashes me a charming grin. “I’ll just have a Coke with lemon. Arthur, here, will have a virgin daiquiri—“  
  
A skinny brunet with a smile that’s even thinner than the rest of him glares dourly at the buff guy. “Don’t order for me, Eames. I’m not your girlfriend.”  
  
“And never will be, with that attitude,” Eames returns without a beat, turning that charming grin on his brunet friend. “Just tell the man what you’re having so we can proceed to get you soused.”  
  
The brunet— _Arthur_ —sniffs and turns that dour look on me. I can tell he doesn’t like what he sees. But then, he probably just has that kinda face. “I’ll have a Jack, neat, and . . . hey, aren’tcha gonna write that down?” he demands. But at the moment, I couldn’t give two shits, because I’ve just noticed the fifth suit, and  _fuck_ , is there plenty to notice.  
  
Blond and also broad-shouldered, he’s got a face like a fucking  _Caravaggio_ , all perfect, solemn features and keen blue eyes that are staring off at the stage—Benny and Ari are setting up the karaoke machine and doing a terrible job of it. That task usually falls to me, but Ethan’s punishing me for refusing to take some elderly bitch’s shit the other night—with absolute dread.  
  
He licks his lips . . . it’s nothing but a reflex, but it makes my dick think about getting hard. So I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I reapply my professional face and direct my approximation of a chummy gaze at the suit who’s still gazing at the karaoke equipment.  
  
“And you, sir?” Professional voice bedamned, my words come out all breathless and weak, and those blue eyes tick to mine, away, then back in a double-take. Then they narrow into an almost confused squint. His mouth drops open a little, and he looks me over like he knows me from somewhere. Or maybe like he’d  _like_  to know me.  
  
A man can dream, right?  
  
The fifth suit, Mr. Angel-face’s, shakes his head and offers me the lamest excuse for a smile, though on him, it’s still possibly the best smile I’ve ever seen.  
  
“Uh, beg pardon?” he says, and even his voice is perfect. Twitch-twitch goes my dick, and I can _not_  serve this table all night if  _he’s_  gonna be here. I prefer to spend my breaks smoking, not jerking off in the employee crapper.  
  
“Drinks? Starters? The jalapeno-shrimp poppers are especially good,” I enthuse, pen poised over my pad, and Angel-face smiles, his face coloring a little as he sneaks a look at Michelob’s menu.  
  
“Uh . . . hmm, I’m not seeing Sapporo on the menu,” he says, frowning a little, and he unaccountably goes up in my estimation. The Japanese imports always do, for some reason. “Is there something comparable? A black label?”  
  
I bite my lip and let my smile turn into the real deal. “We do carry Asahi Black, as well as Super Dry. Oh, and we also have Kirin Lager, Yebisu, Yebisu Black. . . .”  
  
Angel-face’s lips purse a little and I wanna kiss him  _so bad_. “Hmm. Never tried any of those. Which would you recommend?”  
  
“Well, I—“  
  
“Oh, for god’s sake, man, just cut the foreplay and get a Rolling Rock,” Eames says amiably, and cute English accent aside, I could fucking kick him when Angel-face turns pink and looks away from me like I just sprouted horns and a tail.  
  
“I’d recommend the Yebisu Black. If you’re into Japanese beer, I think you’ll like it,” I offer hesitantly, and Angel-face’s eyes tick back to mine. He frowns a little.  
  
“Do  _you_ , uh, like it?” he asks, and Eames heaves a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. The others are talking amongst themselves, except for Arthur, who’s drumming his fingers on the table and looking impatient.  
  
“Like it? I  _love_  it!” I lie brightly, Hazards of working in a bar when you, yourself, don’t drink. “It’s strong stuff—not too foamy at the head. And it goes great with our cheddar bacon bombs,” I add automatically, up-selling our fucking heart-attack in appetizer form. Somewhere in this place, Ethan’s probably jizzing his pants.  
  
Angel-face smiles again, this time for real, and holy shit, that smile could launch a thousand dicks.  
  
“I guess I’ll be having the Yebisu Black,” he says, and damnit, I’m grinning like a fucking moron. And grateful my apron covers what’s turning out to be an embarrassingly persistent semi-hard.  
  
Clearing my throat, I scribble his order on my pad—huh, like I’m likely to forget it, or him. Especially those gorgeous eyes, which are staring steadily into mine. . . .  
  
“And a double order of those bacon bomb-things, too,” Arthur adds with grim dignity, ignoring Eames, who snickers, and murmurs something that sounds like  _oh, my darling_.  
  
Figures that an uptight suit like this Arthur’s a closet-case. Though why said closet-case would take up with a flamer like this Eames guy—hotness aside—is baffling. He’s clearly the type that’d drag a man out of his closet kicking and screaming.  
  
The other two guys at the table, one so fucking pretty it makes my teeth ache—or maybe that’s me grounding them together in jealousy—and the other exotic enough to turn heads, are talking to each other and laughing. Pretty’s clearly got a bad case of the hots for Exotic.  
  
And exotic, unless my ‘dar is off, is 100% straight.  
  
It’s kinda sad, but suit-drama is none of my business.  
  
I hustle off hoping none of them see me rolling my eyes.  
  
But I wonder if it’s just my wishful thinking that Angel-face’s gaze follows me back to the bar.  
  


*

  
  
“ _Dominic_?”  
  
Startled, I look over at Eames and he waggles his eyebrows. “Cute waiter turning your head?”  
  
“What?” I ask, feeling my face heat up. Eames grins knowingly.  
  
“You were only staring at his arse until it was completely out of sight,” he notes with his customary smugness. Then he checks himself out in the reflection of his soup-spoon. “Are you making a lifestyle choice you wish to share with the rest of us?”  
  
“No,” I say quickly. “Of course not. And I wasn’t staring at his ass.”  
  
“Oh, lie to yourself, darling, but don’t lie to  _me_ ,” Eames tuts. “And I don’t blame you at all. He’s absolutely  _scrumptious_. And gay, for your information.”  
  
“Good for him.” I focus on rearranging the knife, fork, and spoon on my napkin.  
  
I  _hadn’t_  been staring at his ass . . . had I?  
  
God, I don’t even know. But I  _do_  know I had been staring at his  _face_ : dramatic  _dark_  eyes framed by thick, shoulder-length brown hair, and a mouth that was made to be curved in a smile. . . .  
  
And when he  _had_  smiled—  
  
“Oh, look at you—you’re actually mooning over the boy! How adorable!” Eames’s amusement cuts into my reminiscence like a hot knife through butter. I glare at him, but to no avail. If Arthur’s glares can’t quell the man, nothing I do ever will.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” I mutter. It’s the best I can come up, unused as I am to being the focus of Eames’s ribbing.  
  
Arthur makes his most disapproving face. “Don’t be such a bastard, Eames. Dom’s not queer.”  
  
“And  _you_  have absolutely no gaydar. Neither of you do,” Eames rolls his eyes fondly. Suddenly I hear thump from under the table; Arthur looks like someone goosed him and Eames looks like he’s got a mouthful of lemon juice.  
  
Likely, Eames had put his hand on Arthur’s thigh and Arthur jumped, jamming Eames’s hand between his leg and the table.  
  
Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. The only thing that surprises me is that  _Eames_ , who’s normally a pretty smart guy and a good reader of people, still acts surprised when it happens.  
  
(I have to admit . . . it’s pretty funny, though.)  
  
“You know, Mr. Eames, technically that’s sexual harassment,” Arthur says primly, tucking his napkin in his lap. Eames sighs, and his hand makes its reappearance on the table. It’s large and bright red with a fading, narrow indent across the top of it. Arthur must’ve mashed it a good one.  
  
“It’s not harassment, darling, if you like it.” Eames follows Arthur’s example and tucks his napkin in his lap. “And how many times must I ask you to call me  _Greg_?”  
  
“You can ask till you’re blue in the face and it’ll never happen.” Arthur glares when Yusuf chuckles. “What?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Yusuf snorts a little. “Merely that you two bicker like an old married couple.”  
  
Eames smirks, but Arthur looks offended. Sitting between Yusuf and Eames, Robert simply looks uncomfortable. But then, he always looks like that. The mid-level guys usually do. It takes nothing short of forever for them to realize the upper-level guys aren’t going to chew them up and spit them out.  
  
“Anyway, darling,” Eames says, meeting my eyes before taking another breadstick and snapping it in two. The smaller piece goes into his mouth, the larger into his glass of water, to act as a stirrer. Arthur makes a moue of distaste and proceeds to ignore him. “I shouldn’t be to worried about your, er, straight-guy  _cred_ , if I were you. That one’s cute enough to turn any man’s a little bent.”  
  
I sigh, taking a breadstick of my own just to have something to do. “He hasn’t turned me ‘bent.’ I don’t think of guys that way.”  
  
Eames’s eyebrow quirks up in total disbelief. “I could cut the sexual tension between the two of you with a knife, Dominic. Neither of you could take your eyes off the other.”  
  
“He couldn’t take his eyes off me?” It slips out before I can think better of it, and Eames looks like the cat that ate the canary. “I mean, uh . . . he’s a waiter and I was placing an order. Of course we were looking at each other.”  
  
“There are none so blind,” Eames says sadly, but his eyes are twinkling and his cheeks are twitching like he’s fighting to not laugh. I sigh again.  
  
“Pay him no mind, Dom. He’s an asshole.” Arthur doesn’t even deign to glance at Eames, who looks offended.  
  
“Oh, I’m not,” I say, taking a bite of my breadstick. I can barely taste the cheese. Or the breadstick itself, for that matter. My mouth is way too dry, and my throat clicks as I swallow.  
  
“All  _Dom’s_  attention is on that waiter, isn’t it, Dominic?” Eames’s nods toward the bar, and against my better judgment, I follow his gaze. The waiter—his nametag had said  _Nash_ —is leaning on the bar, smiling and talking with the busy bartender. Said bartender is laughing and smiling back. Their mutual body language is friendly and familiar . . . maybe a little  _too_  familiar.  
  
Not that that’s any of my business.  
  
When I look back at my erstwhile friends, they’re all staring at me: Yusuf and Eames seem amused, Robert seems surprised, and Arthur looks confused.  
  
“You know, Dom, if you  _do_  like that guy—and I’m not saying you do—that’s totally okay with us.”  
  
“It certainly is,” Eames agrees, and Yusuf and Robert both nod. Yusuf is smiling his enigmatic smile and Robert is blushing so hard, even his ears are pink.  
  
“Am I the only straight guy at the table?” I ask, feeling put out and ganged-up on.  
  
Glancing at Yusuf for some reason, then back at me, Robert says: “Yes?”  
  
Then he blushes and nibbles on a breadstick when Yusuf and Eames laugh.  
  
“There’s only one straight guy at this table, my love, and it’s not you,” Eames murmurs, sharing a glance with Yusuf, who waggles is eyebrows in a ridiculous manner.  
  
I sigh, and my gaze is drawn back to the bar, only to find the waiter and bartender staring at me.  
  


*

  
  
“Shit, you think he saw us staring?” I ask Todd as we both look away.  
  
“Dunno. But he’s  _fine_. For a suit.” Todd tops off the Heineken and places it on my tray. “I suggest that when you go back over there, you put a little bass in your walk. Next time you come back to the bar, I’ll tell you what his reaction was.”  
  
I laugh when Todd’s eyebrows disappear under his dreads and pick up my tray. “You just wanna see me shake my ass. Admit it.”  
  
Todd leans on the bar, all dark eyes and wide, white smile. “Guilty as charged. And when you shake it in  _my_  direction, you know  _I_  know what to do with it.”  
  
The look he gives me makes me— _me_ —turn red all over. It doesn’t help my semi-hard, either. But hopefully he can’t tell I’m blushing in this dim, cave of a bar.  
  
So I tip him a wink and make my way back to Angel-face’s table, wondering if I dared follow Todd’s advice. Ethan’s already been on my ass, lately. The last thing I need is for Angel-face to complain that I behaved inappropriately; or worse, actually get caught at it by Ethan.  
  
Nope. Get thee behind me, Temptation. I’m all business, tonight. I’ve got back rent to pay and a computer that needs a new hard drive. I can’t afford to lose this job.  
  
Not even for Angel-face.  
  


*

  
  
“Okay, that’ a Michelob Light, a Heinie, a Coke-lemon, and Jack neat,” the waiter says, placing the guys’ orders in front of them with a professional smile. Then his eyes meet mine and his smile changes—I can’t put my finger on  _how_ , just that it does. It gets warmer, or . . . something.  
  
“And here’s your Yebisu Black.” He places the beer in front of me, and I smile back at him, ignoring the fact that the whole table is watching us like a ping-pong match.  
  
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. It’s powerful stuff, dark and bitter, just the way I like. “Wow.”  
  
“I know, right?” The waiter says, laughing a little and shaking his hair out of his eyes with a little toss of his head. “Good stuff.”  
  
“Yeah . . . really good. Thank you.” I take another sip, letting the flavor roll around in my mouth. I think I’ve just met my new favorite beer.  
  
“No problem. It was my pleasure.” The waiter suddenly turns a little pink and clears his throat, his eyes shifting to the other gusy. His smile changes again. “Those cheddar bacon bombs’ll just be a few more minutes, guys, okay?”  
  
“Not a problem,” Eames assures him, his voice low with amusement. “You just take your cute, little time, darling. We’ll be here all night.”  
  
The waiter’s— _Nash_ , his nametag reads—eyes narrow and that impersonal smile slips, but only for a second. “Right. Thanks.”  
  
Then he’s ambling off again, and this time, I  _am_  staring at his ass, thanks to Eames’s childish insinuations. It’s . . . not an unattractive ass. Maybe it’s just the way he’s walking: a loose-limbed prowl that puts me in mind of Lauren Bacall, for some reason.  
  
Then a small crowd of women, dressed to kill, pass between us, and he’s out of sight. Walk, and all.  
  
“Oh, well, that tears it, doesn’t it?” Eames bursts out laughing. And I look over at him, frowning. I’ll never get his sense of humor.  
  
“What tears what?”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes. “Really, Dominic, you don’t think that walk was for  _my_  benefit, do you?”  
  
“I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“I think you do.”  
  
I sniff. “I’m sure I  _don’t_.”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes again. “Fine. Play that game, if you like. But you’re wasting a prime opportunity in the form of eleven stone of pretty jailbait.”  
  
“He’s not jailbait or he wouldn’t be able to work in a bar, you Neanderthal.” Arthur takes a swallow of his Jack with a happy little sigh.  
  
“Oh, now, darling, it’s just a figure of speech. I’m certain he’s at least eighteen,” Eames says wistfully, looking off in the direction Nash had gone. Then he looks back at me, his customary smirk turning into a real smile. “Go chat him up. I  _promise_  you, he’ll be receptive.”  
  
“Hmm. I concur,” Yusuf agrees, nodding sagely. Next to him, Robert starts nodding, too. He’s got the worst case of hero worship I’ve ever seen. Whatever Yusuf says is holy writ in the kid’s eyes. It’s kind of sweet.  
  
“Look, guys—“ I begin, meaning to set them straight once and for all. “I’m not, I repeat,  _not_ interested in guys, period. That includes Nash.”  
  
Eames and Yusuf share a glance.  
  
“ _Nash_ , is it?” Yusuf says, and Eames grins.  
  
“Check and mate.”  
  
I flush, really starting to get angry, now. “Look, just because I’m polite enough to remember our waiter’s name—“  
  
“Dom,” Arthur says quietly, and smiles at me, small and understanding. “It’s okay. Despite the way these two act they care about you. We all do. And if you like that guy—“  
  
“Arthur, don’t.” I Squint, because my glares may not have any effect on people, but my squints do. Especially on Arthur. We’ve been friends for sixteen years, since Freshman year of college. I’ve had plenty of time to perfect The Squint.  
  
Sighing, Arthur sits back in his chair and looks miserable. But surprisingly, he soldiers on. “All I’m saying is, thinking one guy is cute—and he  _is_  really cute—doesn’t make you gay. A little bi, maybe, but not necessarily gay. And even if you were . . . there’s nothing wrong with that.”  
  
“I never said there was—just because I don’t jump our waiter doesn’t mean I’m homophobic!” I insist, maybe a little too loud, because the next table over looks at us curiously, and I crane my neck around, making sure no one else—especially Nash—heard us.  
  
But he’s nowhere in sight.  
  
“Oh, the coast is clear, you great chicken,” Eames says, suddenly looking as serious as Arthur. “And you know, I agree with Arthur.”  
  
“You do?” Arthur seems shocked, and when Eames shoots a questioning glance his way, I swear Arthur blushes.  
  
“Of course I do, darling. More often than not.”  
  
“Oh.” Arthur looks down into his glass of Jack, as if it holds an answer to a very important question. “Okay.”  
  
“And don’t think I haven’t noticed you covertly checking out guys before tonight, Dominic. You do it so much I know your type, and our waiter? Is most definitely ‘your type,’” Eames goes on, scowling at me. He’s really, genuinely angry—a rarity among rarities—and absolutely convinced that what he’s saying is the truth. Some of my anger fades as I realize that he thinks he’s  _helping_ me, not just pissing me off.  
  
“I don’t check out guys, Greg . . . I mean, of course I’ve  _noticed_  some guys, and admired their physique or physical attractiveness. And yes, Nash  _is_  physically attractive. But that doesn’t mean I—what?” I trail off as Arthur covers his eyes and leans on the table.  
  
“Jesus, Dom, now it’s just getting embarrassing,” he mutters quietly, and Eames pats his arm consolingly. It’s a sign of how upset  _Arthur_  is that he lets it slide—even leans toward Eames a little.  
  
“You know what—let’s just leave it alone for now and enjoy the night, eh? And leave Dominic alone,” he says completely out of left field, considering the  _last_  thing he’d said. I blink. Then smile in relief.  
  
“Finally. Thank you, Eames.”  
  
Eames bends a quick grin my way. “Not a problem, darling. Now finish up that beer so we can all have another round.”  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” I allow, feeling generous now that the subject has shifted away from my alleged gayness. I have no idea what the hell got into these guys, but I’m more than willing to pretend it never happened.  
  


*

  
  
“Well?”  
  
Todd smirks at me. “Like a dog staring at a piece of meat, honey. He wants you  _bad_.”  
  
I feel myself starting to grin like an idiot . . . before remembering that I have a shift to finish, and finish without getting into trouble, or on Ethan’s bad side. Again.  
  
Jesus, the night’s just started. It’s looking like a long one, too.  
  
“Oh, fuck.”  
  
Todd smiles winningly, leaning closer to me. “Change your mind about Mr. All-American?”  
  
I heave a sigh as table seventeen flags me over. “You don’t know the half of it, Todd. Be back in a minute.”  
  


*

  
  
“. . . so then, Saito-san said, ‘well done, Mr. Fischer.’ And the next thing I know, I got promoted to Yusuf’s team.”  
  
Robert hiccups, and beams at us, popping another cheddar bacon bomb into his mouth. I glance at Yusuf, who shrugs. “He tells that story to everyone.”  
  
“Do not,” Robert says, relaxed for the first time in the two months I’ve known him, but he’s grinning a little loopily. He’s only had three beers, but he’s clearly well on the way to drunk.  
  
At a record five beers—this Yebisu is  _strong_ —I’m not exactly steady myself. The world is shiny and bright, and suddenly karaoke night doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Especially since there’s more drinking and bullshitting going on than karaoke.  
  
“Hey—you know what we should sing? All five of us?” Robert says like a mind-reader, his big blue eyes lighting up as he takes another swig of his Michelob Light. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then grins. “’We Are The Champions!’”  
  
Arthur and I glance at each other and groan at the same time, earning curious looks from the other guys.  
  
“What? Not Queen fans?” Eames asks sounding offended for the second time tonight.  
  
I snag another beef tacquito from our third tray of appetizers. “Uh—not when our roommate in sophomore year used to blast ‘We Are The Champions’ every time he aced a test—“  
  
“—and  _that_  fucker was  _always_  acing tests. Fucking robot,” Arthur grumbles, and Eames turns a fond gaze upon him.  
  
“A bit of a scholarly rivalry between the two of you, eh?” he asks, and Arthur snorts, leaning back in his chair to survey the damage we’ve done to the appetizer tray.  
  
“Not by senior year there wasn’t. He finally got a girlfriend and  _then_  all the bastard played was ‘Body Language’—“  
  
“—when _ever_  they used to fuck.“ I add. Arthur snorts.  
  
“Which was often. We’d get back to the dorm and hear that damn song blasting before we got to the stairwell and know to stay gone for another few hours. I can still hear Freddie Mercury like it was yesterday . . .  _Give me, yeah—your bod-daaaaay._  Ugh. He should’ve been playing ‘Fat-Bottomed Girls.’”  
  
Eames laughs heartily, leaning a little closer to Arthur. “Ah, poor darling.”  
  
“You’ve got a nice voice,” Robert notes approvingly and Arthur snorts again.  
  
“Not as nice as watching that bastard’s 4.0 slip to a 3.8,” he says with dark satisfaction. “A full point less than my 3.9. Not that he cared at that point.”  
  
“ _Schadenfreude_  is such a  _delicious_  look on you, my dearest,” Eames purrs.  
  
“That’s German for  _sour grapes_ ,” Yusuf adds after Arthur huffs, and Robert completes the joke by saying in a tone of perfect wonder: “Boy, those Germans have a word for everything.”  
  
The whole table laughs, even Arthur (grudgingly).  
  
It’s good times. The best I’ve had in a while: good friends, good food, and the avoidance of inflicting my voice on a restaurant full of erstwhile happy strangers.  
  
Good times, indeed.  
  


*

  
  
“You done eating your heart out, yet?”  
  
I don’t even look at Ari. That would mean taking my eyes off of Angel-face, and that, apparently, ain’t happenin’ any time soon. I lean back against the bar, waiting for Todd to finish making three sex-on-the-beaches for the table full of drunk chicks near Angel-face’s table. Ari’s leaning next to me, wasting part of her lunch break just to rib me.  
  
“Come on, Nash, you’ve seen hot guys before, and you’ve never lost your shit like this. Pick your jaw up off the floor and just soldier through,” she says, sounding way too amused. I elbow her without looking, satisfied when she squeaks.  
  
“Don’t tell me he’s not the hottest guy you’ve ever seen in person,” I sigh, watching Angel-face laugh with his friend. He’s got just the vaguest suggestion of dimples—nothing like that Arthur guy—and they’re distracting, to say the least.  
  
“Okay, he  _is_  pretty tasty,” Ari agrees, elbowing me back. “But not as tasty as his friend with the curly dark hair and the beard—I’d climb his fine ass like a tree.”  
  
She’s the horniest math nerd I’ve ever met. I swear she’s only going to school for architecture because most of her classmates are adorkable, if undersexed, guys.  
  
I wonder if Angel-face is undersexed. A lot of the suits that come here seem to be, for the way they’re constantly hitting on their servers. But then, I can’t imagine Angel-face doing that, for some reason. He seems too . . . straight-laced and dare I say . . . gentlemanly.  
  
Besides, he’s probably getting laid six days to Sunday without dipping his pen in karaoke bar ink.  
  
“Oh, just slip him your number on the back of his bill, or something,” Ari murmurs. “At the very least, he’d be flattered.”  
  
“If only I had the stones, babe. I can’t get caught doing that; Ethan’d fire my ass so fast, it’d be like I never worked here,” I murmur back. Something nudges my back and I glance over my shoulder. Todd winks, handing me my tray.  
  
“Order up, sexy,” he says, blowing me a kiss. “And remember: keep that bass in your walk. Blondie isn’t the only guy enjoying the show.”  
  
I roll my eyes.  
  
But I totally take his advice as I wade back into the sea of tipsy customers.  
  


*

  
  
“You, my lad, look to be in dire need of another,” Eames says, flagging down Nash, who’s serving a table full of loud, drunk women. For some reason, I blush.  
  
“Nah, I’ve already had enough. . . .”  
  
“Too much is  _never_  enough, Dominic,” he winks at Arthur, who sighs and shakes his head. “You’ve only had, what—two beers? Three?”  
  
“More like five,” I correct him then polish off the last of my current Yebisu. “I’m starting to get wobbly.”  
  
“Is that so? Ah, my good man!” Eames hails Nash, who looks wary and weary all at once. Eames can do that to people—even people who aren’t Arthur. “We’ll be needing another round of the same. And more of those bacon things for my darling, here,” he indicates Arthur who turns six different shades of red, each one deeper than the last.  
  
Nash, meanwhile, is looking at me consideringly. Then he smiles and takes out his pencil and pad, and looks around the table. “Okay. One Heinie, one Michelob Light, Jack-neat, Coke-lemon, and Yebisu Black for the gentleman—“ Nash’s smile warms when he looks at me again. “And another order of cheddar bacon bombs?”  
  
“Double order, if you please,” Arthur says expansively, his eyes darting between Nash and me. “And four waters.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Nash says, scribbling on his pad. Then he drops it into his apron pocket and looks around the table again. His eyes end up on me, and I find myself smiling at him.  
  
“Coming right up,” he says, and strolls off. God, that Lauren Bacall walk. . . .  
  
When I turn back to the table, it’s to find the guys all staring at me.  
  
“What?” I ask, and Arthur clears his throat.  
  
“Nothing,” he says, elbowing Eames when Eames starts to speak. “Okay, so we came here to sing, right? The sign-ups are gonna start any second. Unless we wanna be last, we should pick a song and get on the sign-up line.”  
  
I groan. “Must we?”  
  
“Yes, we must.” Robert nods, plucking the last of the popcorn shrimp off the decimated appetizer tray. “I haven’t been karaokeing since I moved here from L.A. I’m having withdrawal pains.”  
  
It’s nice to see the kid grow some cajones, but now, of all times?  
  
“I think we should do something by Patsy Cline—maybe ‘I Fall To Pieces,’” Yusuf says, and Eames waves his hand dismissively.  
  
“Marvin Gaye, all the way. ‘Sexual Healing.’” He casts an unsubtle look at Arthur, who doesn’t look nearly as pissed off as he normally would when Eames tries to get a rise out of him.  
  
“What about Aerosmith? ‘Dream On’?” He returns Eames’s gaze with an opaque one of his own.  
  
“What about we just keep on drinking and eating and talking, huh?” I ask the table, and get ignored.  
  
“I still think we should do ‘We Are The Champions,” Robert pipes up, his eyes still alight as he looks from one of us to the other. “Or maybe ‘Another One Bites The Dust’?”  
  
“Wait! I’ve got it!” Yusuf pauses dramatically, till Eames kicks him under the table. “Ow! Okay, okay: ‘Brickhouse.’”  
  
“’She’s might-tay might-tae . . . just lettin’ aaaalllll hang out,’” Arthur sings, nodding. “I could do that.”  
  
“Once again, I defer to my love’s wishes,” Eames says melodramatically, putting a hand over his heart. “But I still think we should do something by Marvin Gaye. Or maybe The Drifters. . . .”  
  
“I don’t know all the words to ‘Brickhouse,’” Robert says doubtfully, but Yusuf pats his back.  
  
“You don’t have to, Rob. As long as you know the general beat and changes, the words are on the screen. It should be fine.”  
  
“Oh-oh-okay,” Robert stammers, seeming flustered for no reason I can spot. He turns an oddly desperate smile on Yusuf. “Okay.”  
  
Now everyone looks at me.  
  
“You can sing whatever you want. I’m gonna stay right here and eat all of Arthur’s bacon bombs.”  
  
“Oh, come on, Dom, don’t be a wet blanket,” Eames says over Arthur’s gasp.  
  
“You  _wouldn’t_.” Arthur’s eyes narrow dangerously.  
  
“Try me.” I put on my best bluff. I honestly wouldn’t touch one of those heart-attacks-on-a-platter with a ten foot fork, but I don’t think Arthur’s even noticed, focused as he is on his verbal sparring with Eames.  
  
“But he can just order more, right?” Robert is looking back and forth between the two of us.  
  
I groan again, and Arthur smiles lazily.  
  
“Your ass is getting up on stage with us, or I’m disowning you as my racquetball partner.”  
  
“You’re bluffing.” I’ve known Arthur enough to spot his tells . . . though he’s not showing any of them now.  
  
But he wouldn’t blow a beautiful partnership over fucking  _karaoke_ , would he?”  
  
Arthur turns that satisfied look on Eames. “Say, Eames, buddy, do you like to play racquetball?”  
  
Eames leers. “Sweetheart, I like to play  _lots_  of games . . . but yes, I’ve been known to pick up a racquet.”  
  
“Alright, alright!” I sigh. Then sigh once more, to let them all know how so not on board with this I am. “I’ll do it. But I won’t like it.”  
  
“Yes, you will!” Robert enthuses then shrinks when I send a  _Squint_  his way.  
  
“Might-tay might-tay,” Arthur riffs, drumming on the table happily. Eames is studying him as if he suddenly sprouted a third eye.   
  
“Who are you, love?” he asks wonderingly. “And what have you done with Arthur Goldstein?”  
  


*

  
  
“Kill me now,” I beg Todd and Ari.  
  
“Poor Nash,” Ari says, pouting. She pats my arm. “I’m going out for a smoke before break ends.”  
  
“Smoke one for me,” I mumble as she heads toward the side exit and the smoking area. I watch her till she’s gone, wishing I were going with her. I need a good few cigarette’s worth of nicotine and formaldehyde to calm me. Or at least de-jangle my nerves.  
  
Todd chuckles and strokes my arm.  
  
“If you like, I could take you out to my car on my lunch, and make you forget aaalll about blondie,” he offers, more than half-seriously. Before tonight, I’d have taken him up on it (and it wouldn’t have been the first time, either) and the best ass-pounding I’ve ever taken. I mean—the man’s a fucking stevedore  _and_  the few times we wound up back at his place, he’s let me stay the night. He even made me breakfast in the morning.  
  
But I have a feeling any sexing that happens tonight will involve me pretending my partner is Angel-face. And once that happens, I’ll probably immediately blow my load like a fucking teenager.  
  
“I have a feeling  _amnesia_  wouldn’t make me forget about Angel-face,” I apologize, shaking my head no and kicking myself for it. “Sorry.”  
  
Todd frowns, then shrugs. “Whatever. No problem. What’d they want, this time?” he asks, all business, his face closed off in a way I’ve never seen it.  
  
“Uh . . . same as before . . . Mickey Light, Heinie, Jack-neat, Coke-lemon, Yebisu Black.” I bite my lip and steel myself to ask Todd if he’s okay—then think better of it. “I gotta put in the rest of their order with the kitchen.”  
  
“’Kay.” Todd turns away, hands already busy.  
  
Well. There’s  _that_  friendship-with-benefits probably blown to Hell. And all for a guy I don’t have a snowball’s chance with.  
  
What the fuck is  _with_  me, tonight?  
  


*

  
  
Adding insult to injury,  _I_  have to be the one who signs us up.  
  
And not just  _any_  name, but  _Arthur, and the Art-Tones_. Eames had nearly laughed himself sick till Arthur had punched him in the arm not once, but thrice.  
  
“That’s two for flinching,” he’d said flatly, glaring. Eames, rubbing his arm, had shaken his head in wounded wonderment.  
  
“Really. What have you done with Arthur Goldstein, you lunatic?”  
  
“Don’t be an ass,” Arthur had said, then looked at me. “Like I said: Arthur and the Art-Tones, for ‘Brickhouse.’”  
  
Not wanting one of Arthur’s bony-fisted punches, I’d done as ordered. And now, I finish scrawling out the ridiculous name and ridiculous song in the sign-up binder, wishing I was drunk enough to find any of this charming or fun.  
  
“’Arthur and the Art-Tones’ . . . interesting name.”  
  
I turn and find Nash smirking at me. Unlike Eames’s smirk, his smirk is kind of . . . something. Something that hits me right in the gut and makes my mouth go dry.  
  
For a moment, I want to grab him and . . . taste the smirk.  
  
As if he can read my mind, that smirk wavers, and he looks down at his shoes. His hair falls into his face. “So, uh . . . what’re you guys singing?”  
  
“’Brickhouse.’” I’m mesmerized by his hair, but wanting to see his eyes again. There’s something about them that I can’t figure out, but I can’t stop trying, either. I don’t think I want to. What I _want_  is to brush his hair back out of his face and have him smile at me. “Though I’m not going willingly. My friend, Arthur, coerced me into it.”  
  
“Ahhh.” His lips curve a little as if he’s heard something like this before. He probably has.  
  
“Yeah. Ahhh,” I sigh. “No offense, but karaoke’s just not my thing. I have a horrible voice and a horrible memory for song lyrics.”  
  
“Oh, but you don’t have to remember the lyrics. They’re on the screen,” he says, just like Yusuf had. I sigh again, and he snorts.  
  
“Well, uh . . . I’m sure you guys’ll do great—and have lots of fun, too.” He peers up from behind his hair, and smiles almost shyly. “Since you’re singing ‘Brickhouse,’ just picture someone who’s really hot, pretend the audience isn’t there, and sing your heart out.”  
  
“It’s not that easy for me.”  
  
“Why not?” His smile turns into that smirk, which I’m starting to realize is . . .  _sexy_. I, Dominic Dale Cobb, find this  _man’s_  smirk . . .  _sexy_. “Can’t think of anyone hot enough to make you brave?”  
  
“I’m sure I can,” I say a little too breathlessly, staring at his mouth in absolute shock. Because his smirk should be  _many_  things, but none of those things are  _sexy_. And yet. . . .  
  
Then I realize how what I said could be taken and my face heats up alarmingly. “I mean, uh. . . .”  
  
But Nash is stepping closer to me, looking into my eyes as if he’s trying to see right into me.  
  
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I may be completely off base and out of line, here, but . . . if I were going up on that stage tonight, I’d probably be thinking of you. No—“ he laughs a little, glancing over my shoulder at the karaoke set-up. “I’d  _definitely_  be thinking of you.”  
  
My jaw drops.  
  
Then it drops some more.  
  
“Uh,” I say intelligently. Then shake my head. “I—um. I’m not—“  _sure how I feel about that,_  I mean to say. But nothing comes out, because that’d be a lie: I know how I  _should_  feel. And I know how I  _do_  to feel.  
  
But before I can decide which feeling to go with, Nash is stepping back, his gaze focused over my shoulder once more. “Right. You  _wouldn’t_  be. Look—I clearly made a huge mistake, and I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I said at all, let alone to a customer, and I’d really appreciate it if you pretend I hadn’t.” He takes a deep breath after this rush of words then meets my eyes again. “Really, man. I’m sorry. I let myself get away from . . . myself.”  
  
“Wait—no, it’s okay, I’m not offended, or anything,” I tell him, pasting on my biggest grin. Only it feels more like one of Robert’s anemic grimace-smiles. I want to reach out and put my hands on his shoulder . . . but I don’t. I can’t. Because if I touched him . . . I’m not sure I could stop. “It’s okay.”  
  
“It’s really not,” Nash laughs again, self-deprecatingly, taking another step away from me, and that hits me in the gut, too. But not in a good way. Not like that sexy little smirk. “I’m not normally forward with a customer like that. And usually my gaydar is pretty unfailable.”  
  
“Infallible,” I correct automatically, and Nash—is practically halfway across the bar, now.  
  
“Right. And the hits just keep on comin’.” He bites his lip. “Anyway, I’m sorry, again, about what I said. I’ll have the bartender comp this round for you—oh, and your drinks are at the table. Enjoy, sir.”  
  
Then he’s gone. Weaving past the tables—more like scurrying—none of that Lauren Bacall insouciance in his walk.  
  
Eames had thought said insouciance had been all for me, and . . . he’d been right, it seems. Nash’s gaydar may be off, but Eames’s? Never.  
  
Though looking back on the past few minutes,  _had_  Nash’s gaydar been far off?  
  
“Totally off,” I tell myself, only to find myself remembering that smirk . . . and I’m suddenly experiencing that down low tingle I almost never get these days. The one that means I’m . . . aroused.  
  
Shit. I’m aroused.  
  
By a  _smirk_.  
  
By  _Nash’s_  smirk.  
  
It has to be a fluke. Maybe his smirk reminds me of some supermodel’s uber-confidence. And anyway, I’d always preferred women with dark hair and eyes. Nash has both those characteristics, and he’s certainly pretty enough to be a woman. . . .  
  
But he’s not, and . . . there goes the tingle again, stronger and more insistent than ever. I’m even re-imagining that smirk—that almost coy look—that  _walk_ —  
  
“No. Way,” I tell the traitor in my pants as it starts to take unequivocal interest in the images my brain’s indulging in.  
  
 _Yes, way_ , it says right back.  
  
I’m getting hard in the middle of a karaoke bar, as some rather large woman shoves past me to get at the sign-up book. I’m starting to sweat a little, and the dim, cavernous bar suddenly seems entirely too small. A little too claustrophobic.  
  
Taking a page from the large woman’s book, I shove my way through the bar, muttering  _’scuse me_ s—past our table, where the guys are laughing good-naturedly about something. They don’t even notice me go by.  
  
I don’t stop till I’m at an exit. Not the front exit, because there’s no coatroom, but any exit’ll do, at the moment. I need fresh air and space.  
  
But I guess I don’t get either. It seems I’m out in the smoking section. There are at least ten people out in the short, narrow alley, half of them employees, dragging off their coffin nails like they’re life’s breath.  
  
Sighing, I move past the door a little, coming to stand next to a small, dark-haired waitress who looks far too young to be  _in_  a bar, let alone working at one.  
  
“Hey,” she says, smiling. I return it perfunctorily.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
She switches the cigarette from left hand to right, then holds her left hand out to me. Resigning myself to small talk, I take it.  
  
“Ariadne,” she says, and my eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“As in the minotaur’s half-sister?”  
  
She winks cheekily. “As in the bride of Dionysis—one and the same. What’s your handle?”  
  
“Dominic,” I tell her, both bemused and charmed by her straight-forwardness. Her own eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“As in the saint?”  
  
“Hardly.” I snort, thinking of the incipient hard-on I came out here to escape. “Dominic, as in my maternal grandfather, Domenico. It’s a family name, but my father wanted to anglicize it, if he couldn’t name me Orel. After  _his_  father.”  
  
“ _Orel_? As in Hershiser?” Ariadne makes a face that’s so adorably disapproving, I can’t be offended. After all, I, myself, am glad to have escaped that name. “Ah, family names are the best, aren’t they?”  
  
“Can’t live with ‘em, can’t have them posthumously changed.”  
  
Ariadne grins taking a drag off her cancer stick. “Ooh, cute  _and_  funny. Please tell me you’re also a good tipper?”  
  
“I’ve been known to open my wallet for good service.”  
  
“Hmm. I’ll bet you’re hung like a stallion, too.” For the second time in ten minutes, my jaw drops. I’m literally too shocked to blush. “Of course I only know this because all the gay ones are cute, funny, and hung. That’s how it goes in ‘Frisco.”  
  
Sighing wistfully, she looks at me as if expecting some sort of response to— _that_. I’m drawing pretty blank, though. I don’t know whether I’m flattered or offended.  
  
“Wha—bwuh?”  
  
Laughing, she takes my arm like we’ve known each other for years. “Oh, sweetie, I can see why he likes you.”  
  
“Who?” I ask, but I know whom. Who else?  
  
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play innocent with me, mister. You know who. The waiter whose ass you’ve been staring at all night.” She takes another drag off her cigarette, waving away smoke. In my direction, no less, and I cough. “Sorry. So. Are you two gonna bow-chicka-wow-wow, or what? The suspense is killing me.”  
  
Her tone is so low and confidential, I automatically move closer to her, glancing around. No one is paying us any mind, and I ask: “What, exactly, are you smoking?”  
  


*

  
  
“Here you go, fellas.” I slide the cheddar bacon bombs on the table, and three of the four of them dive right in, hissing as they eat because the damn things are still molten hot.  
  
The fourth guy, Eames, is staring at me thoughtfully.  
  
“Have you seen our friend? Tall, blond fellow—drop-dead gorgeous eyes?”  
  
Of  _course_  I’d seen him. Practically bolting through the crowd not two minutes after I’d tried putting the moves on him and got shot the fuck down.  
  
Putting on my most bland, innocent face, I lie. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t.”  
  
“Is that so?” Eames’s quirks a doubtful eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else for nearly a minute, during which I fight very hard not to squirm. “Well, then. Should you see him—“  
  
“Tell him to get his ass back here,” Arthur grunts, wrist deep in his future coronary episode.  
  
“—please let him know that his mates are waiting breathlessly for his return,” Eames finishes more delicately.  
  
“Sure, will do,” I promise, walking away. And if I should happen to see him while on my fifteen—doubtful—I’ll surely pass it along. At any rate, I’m  _really_  looking forward to chain-smoking at least three cigarettes to calm my fucking nerves.  
  
But first things first, I gotta clock out without running into Ethan, who can be an unpleasant little prick even when I  _haven’t_  done anything insubordinate.  
  
The crowds part easily for me—they always do, for the man who brings the drinks and food—and soon enough, I’m passing the bar, and Todd, who totally ignores me (what-the-fuck- _ever_ ). The stupid, batwing doors that lead into the kitchen swing open when I push them hard, and I dart through quick so they don’t hit me in the ass.  
  
Ethan’s leaning on the wall near the time clock and looking directly at me.  
  
He does  _not_  look happy.  
  
I wonder if he knows. . . ?  
  
No. There’s no way. Angel-face seems like a good enough egg. And even if he was a tattler, he couldn’t have gotten to Ethan this fast . . . could he?  
  
Sighing, I square my shoulders and march toward impending doom like a man.  
  


*

  
  
It’s been nearly a minute since I asked her what she’s been smoking, and all she’s done is stare at me like I’m a puppy who piddled on the carpet.  
  
Finally she sighs. “Look, whatever homosexual panic you’re going through, table it for the moment and hear me out.”  
  
“I’m  _not_  a homosexual!” I hiss, not daring to look around and see if anyone heard.  
  
Ariadne sighs again. “Whatever you are, you’ve made it pretty obvious that you’re attracted to my friend. And he’s made it clear that if you wanted him to, he’d go home with you in a heartbeat.”  
  
I think back to what Nash had said and avoid her gaze. “I don’t see that I’ve made anything obvious.”  
  
“There are none so blind,” she says, just like Eames had. Startled, I meet her eyes to see not amusement, but compassion.  
  
“He really likes you,” she says softly. “And that says a lot about how awesome  _you_  must be because Nash? Doesn’t like  _anyone_. It took him three months just to warm up to  _me_ , and I’m _adorable_.”  
  
I snort.  
  
“Anyway, he likes you.  _Like_ -likes you. But he’s too scared of losing his job to say anything to you, so I’ll say it for him, since I don’t give two shits about this hellhole: are you gonna leave here, letting him think you don’t want him? Or are you gonna man-up and admit to yourself that whatever else your preferences are normally,  _tonight_ , your sex-arrow is pointing Nash-ward?”  
  
“I— _sex-arrow_?”  
  
Ariadne shrugs. “I’m an architect, not a writer. Sue me.”  
  
“I could, you know,” I muse wishfully, knowing that even was I so inclined, I really couldn’t.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Slander.”  
  
“Assuming you could convince a judge in  _San Francisco_  that implying someone might be a teeny bit gay is slander. Which I doubt you could.”  
  
“Could, too. I’m a lawyer.” I nearly stick my tongue out at her.  
  
Her eyes widen and she nods approvingly. “Criminal?”  
  
“Contract.”  
  
“Ah. Where the  _real_  money is.” She nods again. “I’m liking you more and more all the time. You’d be good for Nash. He deserves someone who could treat him right.”  
  
“And because I have money, you assume that I would?”  
  
She blinks then grins. “No. I assume you would because, like I said, you clearly like him. And I just . . . get a good vibe off of you. The money is icing on the cake.”  
  
“My money is neither here nor there. And you know what they say about assumptions, don’t you?”  
  
“That they’re the mother of all fuck-ups? Agreed. Most of the time they are. But I don’t think I’m out of left field on this one.” She gives me another piercing look, and I glance away, down the alley.  
  
“Maybe not, but you’re certainly out of line.”  
  
“Yes, but adorably so.” She tugs on my arm and I look down at her. That cheeky grin is back. “I really do like you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to get you to see reason. You like Nash, and Nash obviously likes you . . . a  _lot_. You both live in the gayest city in the world, the place you’re least likely to get judged . . . what’s the problem?”  
  
And I don’t know what it is about her—maybe it’s that I get a good vibe off of her, too—but I think she really cares, and really wants to see Nash happily paired off. With  _me_ , no less.  
  
“Listen, you’re young—“ she rolls her eyes and gives me the finger. “No, hear me out on this: you’re young, not set in your ways. If some girl came along that caught your eye, you’d think nothing of pursuing her, would you?”  
  
“Wouldn’t and haven’t,” she says proudly. “Back in Montreal, I knew this girl named Mallorie . . . holy God, but she was ridiculous-hot. And beautiful. Boy  _did_  I pursue. And I got her, too. For awhile, anyway.” She shrugs.  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy for me. In my generation—“  
  
“Oh, please! You’re what? Thirty?”  
  
“Thirty-four.”  
  
She blows me a raspberry. “B.F.D, man. You’re one Gen removed. And like I said, in this day and age, in  _this_  city, no on cares who you do. Or date. Or fall in love with. Or adopt a Korean orphan with.”  
  
“That’s not the  _point_ ,” I start to say, and she cuts me off with a gesture.  
  
“Then what  _is_  the point, Dominic? Because I’m not seeing one.” She lets go of my arm to cross hers obstinately.  
  
I do the same.  
  
“The  _point_ , young-lady-whom-I-just-met, is . . . none of your business.”  
  
“Only because you know there isn’t one. You’re just a chicken-shit.”  
  
“I—no one’s ever called me that before,” I tell her, Squinting as hard as I can. She huffs, squinting back at me like someone’s disapproving mother.  
  
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time someone did, eh? Because anyone who can’t follow his heart when it really counts is exactly that: a chicken shit-of the first water who needs to get his act together before he loses out on something really good.”  
  
And with that, she flounces to the door, slams it open, and disappears inside, leaving me out here with a bunch of indifferent smokers.  
  
Coughing, I glare at each and every one of them, and start after Ariadne, wanting to have the last word, even if she—maybe—was a little bit right.  
  
I yank the door open, more denials on my lips.  
  


*

  
  
After what turned out to be a pretty token dressing down by Ethan, I stalk through the bar, past Todd, through the customers, to the smoker’s exit.  
  
“Hey, Nash—“ someone starts to say, as I stomp past, but I’ve already got my cigarette out and jammed in the corner of my mouth and my lighter in my hand. No time to talk, now.  
  
At the door, I pause to light up before swinging it open. Well, before it’s  _swung open_  from the outside.  
  
I’m face to surprised Angel-face with the fifth suit.  
  


*

  
  
It’s Nash. . . .  
  
Just who I don’t need to see, right now.  
  
Just who I really  _want_  to see right now.  
  
I’d wonder if Ariadne sent him out here, but not only didn’t she have the time, but he looks so startled, he obviously didn’t expect to run into me out here.  
  
I resist the unbelievably strong urge to take the cigarette out of his mouth and replace it with my tongue. “Those’ll, uh, kill ya, ya know.”  
  
“This, or a bus the next time I’m crossing Van Ness.” He laughs. And though he immediately removes the cigarette, he doesn’t remove the temptation. “If you don’t smoke, what’re you doing out here?”  
  
 _About to chase down your out-spoken friend and deny that I’m attracted to you_  hardly seems like a good answer. “Uh, getting some fresh air.”  
  
Nash looks around at all the smokers then back at me. “Mission accomplished.”  
  
I laugh, and he grins. It makes him look all of sixteen and very suddenly I feel like a dirty, dirty old man.  
  
But that doesn’t stop me from staring at him, or noticing that he’s staring right back at me.  
  
“I’m on my fifteen minute break,” he says, turned shy once more and apropos of nothing. I nod, and that grin wavers a bit. “Got nothin’ to do but kill time.”  
  
Just then I remember the guys, and the horror that is karaoke. “Ah, shit—I gotta go back in—my friends are probably wondering where I am.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. They are,” Nash says a bit ruefully, puffing on his cigarette and looking away. Smoke almost immediately plumes back out of his mouth. Shaking his head, his flicks the cigarette out into the night, even though it’s barely been smoked. “The British guy wanted me to let you know they’re waiting breathlessly for your return.”  
  
He stands aside to let me go past, and I do—but as I pass, I wind up catching his gaze, and . . . Ariadne was right. Eames was right. About everything. I  _want_  him, more than I’ve wanted anyone within recent memory.  
  
“Hey,” I say softly, uncertainly, leaning in toward him a little, and he moves closer to me. “I—I think—“  
  
“’Scuse us,” one of two pretty blondes trills as she and her friend slink past Nash, who’s all of a sudden pressed against me.  
  
Ostensibly to let the two ladies go by.  
  
He’s warm, and surprisingly solid, despite being so slim, and if I’m not mistaken . . . he really, _really_  likes me.  
  
I don’t even realize I’ve closed my eyes till I open them and find myself staring down into his. I can feel him shivering.  
  
“You’re  _really_  ping my ‘dar, right now, you know.” He laughs a little, nervously, and his fingers brush my own lightly. This close, I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re lovely, dark, and deep. “Are you sure you’re straight?”  
  


*

  
  
Angel-face sighs, but doesn’t look away, his eyes as solemn as any I’ve ever seen.  
  
“Not so much, anymore,” he admits quietly, taking a deep, deep breath. His fingers lace themselves with my own, and my eyes flutter shut.  
  
I want him to kiss me . . . but not here, where people can gawk.  
  
When I open my eyes, he’s  _this_  close to me, his lips gently puckered, and  _I’m_  this close to saying _to Hell with it_ , and letting him.  
  
But I think that once we kiss . . . it’s not gonna stop there.  
  
Fuck, I won’t  _let_  it stop there.  
  
“Wait.” I turn my face a little, catching his kiss on my cheek, shivering again at the light, wet swipe of tongue.  
  
“Wait?” he asks, sounding uncertain again, and I look into his eyes with some serious fucking intent.  
  
“If you can hold off till I get us a little privacy, I’ll let you do anything you want to me, on me, and in me.” This time, Angel-face is the one shivering, his eyes gone wide and pupils super-dilated. “Okay?”  
  
“Y-yeah.”  
  
I smirk, tugging him around the edges of the common area, toward the coatroom.  
  


*

  
  
Like a love-struck puppy, I follow him, not caring where we go, just so long as I get to keep touching him. Even just holding his hand is like a revelation. It sets all my nerve-endings to tingling and  _burning_  in a way they never have before.  
  
The fact that we’re two men holding hands, in a crowd of people is far less important or disturbing than the fact that there’s so much of him I have yet to touch. . . .  
  
I’m hard enough, now, that walking is uncomfortable. But before long, we’re at a familiar recessed counter, where a bored-looking redhead sits popping gum and flipping through a magazine. She looks up as we approach, here eyes ticking between Nash and me.  
  
“What’s all this?” she asks, gazing meaningfully at our hands and grinning. She blows a bubble that pops loudly. Almost as loud as the smacking sounds she makes afterward.  
  
“Tara, babe, I need the coatroom for the next ten, fifteen minutes,” Nash says hurriedly, glancing back at me with that insouciant smirk. The fire it ignites threatens to consume me.  
  
“So it’s like  _that_ , is it?” She blows another bubble and waits for it to pop. “What’s in it for me?”  
  
Nash glances at me again, as if for help. I shrug, and he turns back to her. “Uh . . . the satisfaction of bringing star-crossed lovers together?”  
  
“Hah! Try again, Don Juan!”  
  
“How about a chance to not be a bitch, for once?” Nash snaps, and I wince. And Tara looks like she’s about to say a very firm  _no_.  
  
“Wait—how about—“ take out my wallet. Aside from my credit cards and a few photos of Arthur and I from college, there’s exactly five singles in my billfold. “Five bucks?”  
  
Tara snatches my wallet and rifles through the cash. She takes it out with a haughty sniff. “With a suit like that, figures you’d have more than five dollars,” she says disapprovingly.  
  
“I have credit cards so I don’t  _have_  to carry cash.” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but I do. Tara heaves a sigh and flips the counter up.  
  
“Get in here before Ethan sees you.”  
  
“Yes!” Nash drags me past her, to a tall, narrow door. He opens it, flicking on a light. Hung on three separate circular racks are more coats than I’ve ever seen in one place.  
  
Nash turns to grin at me.  
  
“Shut the door, baby,” he says lowly. I do, flushing hot and blanching cold as my blood races. He steps closer, pressing himself against me again. We’re both hard, and the friction does crazy things to my brain.  
  
“You feel nice,” Nash murmurs, taking my hands once more and leaning in to nuzzle my neck. I can’t even describe how good it feels.  
  
“Jesus . . . you f-feel nice, too.”  
  
“And don’t stain any of the coats, or it’s my ass!” Tara screeches through the door, making us both jump.  
  
We stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments then laugh.  
  
“C’mon,” Nash says, tugging me deeper into the forest of coats. At the end of the journey is a small folding table, some chairs, and a ratty-looking couch.  
  
Now Nash looks at me expectantly. I blush and try on what I hope is a worldly smile. But it’s belied by the next words that come out of my mouth: “So . . . what happens next?”  
  
Nash licks his lips and smirks. “I was thinking we’d start with a blowjob, and see where it goes from there.”  
  


*

  
  
Angel-face’s eyes widen and he swallows, nodding hesitantly.  
  
Nothing could surprise me more than when he drops to his knees.  
  
“Baby, baby, what’re you  _doing_?” I ask, trying not to laugh. He looks so scared and young, that I want to kiss him and hug him. Or at the very least reassure him that I meant  _I_  would be the one giving the blowjob.  
  
At least . . . that’s what I’d meant till I saw him on his knees, his face so close to my dick.  
  
“I, uh . . . don’t really know  _what_  I’m doing,” Angel-face says shakily, pushing up my apron. Ever helpful, I tug the damn thing over my head and toss it at the couch. Angel-face smiles up at me, and puts his hands on my waist.  
  
Then on my belt.  
  
Then he’s leaning forward, nuzzling my hard-on and mouthing it uncertainly through fabric and my head falls back.  
  
A long, low groan comes from somewhere . . . and I realize:  _that’s me_.  
  
Even through my pants and boxers his mouth feels  _amazing_.  
  
“Fuuuucckk.” I look down at him. His hands are hooked in my belt and he’s still mouthing me slowly—pretty amateurly—and with increasing confidence. And it’s no wonder, considering the noises I’ve been making.  
  
I cup his face in my hand, and when he looks up, I smile.  
  
“Take me out,” I tell him, brushing my thumb across his perfect lips. And: “I wanna feel your mouth on me.”  
  
Angel-face swallows again—gotta love his instincts—and nods. Without breaking gazes, he undoes my belt and my fly and hesitates for a moment . . . then he pulls my pants and boxers down carefully, without letting his hands or the fabric touch my dick.  
  
When there’s a puddle of fabric at my feet, Angel-face finally looks at my dick. For, like,  _ever_.  
  
Finally, I start getting antsy, and shifting my weight from foot to foot.  
  
“What? Don’t like what you see?” I demand, and those blue-blue eyes meet mine, and. . . .  
  
. . . he smiles. It’s a fragile, sweet sort of smile that makes my heart beat faster.  
  
“I think I’m kinda gay,” he says calmly. Then he leans forward and licks the tip of my cock in one long, slow rasp.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , I think you’re kinda gay, too.” I exhale. Angel-face’s smile widens, and he goes back for more  
  
Another one of those groans echo in the room.  
  


*

  
  
It’s not anything like I thought it would be.  
  
I’d expected—well, to not like the way he tasted, smelled, or felt, but on the contrary, he’s saltymuskyhotperfection against my tongue and in my mouth. At least until I nearly choke, trying to take him all the way in.  
  
“Easy, baby, easy. You’re not used to sucking dick, so you gotta take it slow,” Nash soothes, running his fingers through my hair. “I’ll stay still, and you just—do whatever, okay? Whatever feels right.”  
  
Still coughing a little, I look up at him then back down at his erection, red, and shiny with my spit.  
  
I just had another man’s cock in my mouth and . . . not only am I not freaking out about it, I’m planning on doing it again, as soon as I catch my breath.  
  
Or maybe a little sooner than that: I can’t seem to stop myself from kissing and licking his cock, and nuzzling the straight, dark hair at the root. I brace myself on his thigh with one hand and cup his balls with the other. I don’t know what he likes, so I just do what  _I_  like having done. I squeeze them gently and tug on them lightly.  
  
He moans his encouragement and that makes me bolder. Makes me eager to try taking him in again, so I do. Slow, just like he’d said, humming, just like my ex-wife used to do to me.  
  
“ _Fuuuck_ —you sure you’ve never sucked dick before?”  
  
I hum a soft  _nuh-uh_  around half his cock. When I glance up at him, he’s gazing steadily down at me, breathing fast and hard.  
  
Suppressing a smirk of my own, I keeps licking and sucking as best I can, taking in as much of him as my current skill level will allow. When he hits the back of my throat, I back off a bit, careful not to make the same mistake twice. But Nash groans, pinching the root of his cock between his fingers.  
  
“Okay, you gotta stop now, baby . . . I’m gonna come and you ain’t ready to swallow.”  
  
He says it in a gentling voice, like I’m a high-strung, nervous animal he’s trying to tame. I roll my eyes at him and hum  _nuh-uh_  again, and take him as deep as I can once more,  
  


*

  
  
Angel-face moans around my dick and shakes his head a little, sucking harder, drool running down his chin. It shouldn’t be so fucking  _hot_ , but it is. It  _so_  is. . . .  
  
I wind my fingers through his hair and pull his head back till all that’s still in his mouth is the tip of my cock. He sucks on it like a it’s a blow-pop and it’s all I can do not to shove myself down his throat.  
  
“Last chance,” I warn him as the familiar tingling rush shoots down my spine and through my balls. Angel-face’s eyes meet mine, all challenging and intense. So I push my cock back into his mouth, a little more than halfway, and let him do his thing. Soon enough, I feel that tight, hot, drawing-up sensation in my balls and burning at the base of my cock.  
  
“Fuck,” I moan then I’m coming so hard it feels like I’m being turned inside out.  
  
And I just keep coming and coming, until it feels like there’s nothing left to me but grunts and gasps.  
  
When it’s finally over, my legs start to wobble, but Angel-face is standing up to catch me, guiding me over to the couch. He sits me down and parks it right next to me. His face is red and he’s massaging his jaw gingerly.  
  
“You alright?” I ask, flopping a hand on his thigh. It’s still tingly and numb and pretty boneless. Angel-face looks at me and smiles, wiping his mouth a little.  
  
“Oh, yeah.” He laughs a bit ruefully. “I’m  _definitely_  gay.”  
  
I squeeze his arm lightly. “One blowjob doesn’t make you  _definitely_  gay. Only kinda,” I say. I’d say just about anything after an orgasm like  _that_.  
  
“If I really liked giving it, I think it does.” His eyes tick to mine again, thoughtful and grave. “Or maybe I’m just into you.”  
  
I lick my lips and smirk-smirk-smirk. “You  _could_  be into me, if you want.”  
  
Angel-face’s eyes go wide. He’s so fucking beautiful when he does that.  
  
“You mean, uh. . . .”  
  
I kick off my shoes, pants, and boxers, swinging my legs up onto his.  
  
“I  _mean_ , if you’ve got a rubber, then I’ll be more than happy to broaden your education, Angel-face.”  
  
“I—fuck.  _Fuck_ , I don’t, but—I know someone who does. Wait right here!” He jumps up, nearly dumping me on the floor, and makes for the door like every hound in Hell is after him, leaving me to scramble on the edge of the couch before finally hitting the floor with a squawk.  
  


*

  
  
My jaw still aches  _and_  I’m out of breath when I get back to the table.  
  
Eames isn’t there. Neither is Arthur. But Yusuf and Robert still are.  
  
“Where the fuck is Eames?” I demand, and they look at me like I’m a madman.  
  
“He and Arthur went to the men’s room . . . awhile ago, actually.” Robert frowns. “I should see what’s taking them so long—“  
  
“ _NO!_ ” Yusuf and I say at the same time. But Yusuf is the one who elaborates. “I think Greg and Arthur are . . . working out their differences. It’d be best to leave them to it.”  
  
“Oh.  _Oh_!” Robert’s wide eyes get wider as he realizes exactly what Eames and Arthur are probably doing in the bathroom. Then he grins. “Go, Arthur!”  
  
Yusuf laughs. “Indeed. Now, what was it you needed, Dom? Perhaps I can help.”  
  
“Uh . . . something I’m thinking only Eames could help me with. . . .”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
My face goes up in flames, but I’m desperate, and hard enough that each beat of my heart makes me want to bury my cock somewhere warm and tight.  
  
And I know just the place.  
  
“Look, I need a—a  _condom_ ,” I whisper. Now Yusuf’s eyes are the ones that go wide. Then he’s grinning, too. But apologetically.  
  
“Ah, there I cannot help you, my friend—“  
  
“I can!” Robert takes out his wallet and from inside the billfold, pulls a crinkled foil packet. “Et, voila!”  
  
Yusuf and I can only gape at him.  
  
“What? It’s not like I’m a virgin,” Robert scoffs defensively.  
  
Whatever he is, I could kiss him. Instead, I grab the condom and fight my way back through the crowd, almost beyond caring if they can see my erection through my pants.  
  
When I get to the coatroom, Tara obligingly flips up the counter with a sarcastic: “Go get ‘im, Champ!”  
  
“Thanks!”  
  
Then I’m hurtling through the door and past the coats, the sleeves of which seem to slap my in the face with malignant will.  
  
But it’s only seconds before I’m at the couch, and Nash—  
  
\--holy mother of God, Nash is completely naked, on his hands and knees on the couch, and smirking over his shoulder.  
  
“I took the time to prepare myself while you were gone, so you can just climb on, slide in, and get to it.”  
  
“Oh. Thanks,” I say again, already unbuckling my belt. When my pants and shorts hit the floor, I kick them of impatiently. Nash’s eyes lock onto my cock and he huffs out a breathless laugh.  
  
“But I don’t think I prepared  _enough . . . fuck_. You’ve got a monster on you, baby.”  
  
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard words to that effect. Frankly, my cock’s always seemed about symmetrical to the rest of me. But hearing Nash call it a ‘monster’ makes me start to believe there might be something to what my ex-girlfriends and ex-wife used to say.  
  
I look down at my cock, which is sticking straight up at this point. It looks the same as always: not particularly monstrous. I shrug.  
  
“C’ _mon_ —roll that condom on and hop to!”  
  
But Nash doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds . . .  _hungry_. Like he wants something from me that only I can give.  
  
No one’s ever sounded like that for  _me_.  
  
Bemused for the second time this evening, I roll the condom on carefully—it’s kind of too short and too tight, but it’ll have to do—and approach the couch. With each step I get more nervous.  
  
Then I’m kneeling on the couch behind him.  
  
“What, uh—“ I ask, staring at the back of his head, which is lowered like that of a penitent.  
  
“Jeez, don’t tell me you’ve never done anal, before?”  
  
“Uh—“  
  
Nash looks over his shoulder again, surprised. “Not even with a girlfriend?”  
  
My silence probably says it all.  
  
“Oh, my God, I’m with a virgin!”  
  
“Hey, now, I’m  _not_  a—“  
  
“But you  _are!_  I’m the first man you’ve ever sucked off, and the first man you’ll fuck!” Nash squirms back against me, till my cock is pressed against the cleft of his ass. I groan, wanting, more than anything, to be inside him. “Holy shit, that’s a rush!”  
  
“Just tell me what to do,” I practically beg, and Nash squirms against me again, breathing hard. I put one steadying hand on his hip.  
  
“Have you ever fucked a girl doggy-style?”  
  
“Yeah. . . .”  
  
“Well, it’s kind of like that, only there’s one less hole to deal with.”  
  
I blink. “That . . . oddly enough makes sense.”  
  
Nash arches his spine. “What can I say? I’m a freakin’ genius. Now  _fuck me_.”  
  


*

  
  
_OW_.  
  
It’s the first thing I think as he starts to push that monster into me—slower than I expected but still  _too fucking fast_ —though I manage not to say it out loud. I just breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and will my body to relax.  
  
“Oh . . . oh, God, you’re so  _tight_ ,” he moans happily, forcing his dick a little bit deeper . . . a little bit deeper . . . inch, by agonizing inch.  
  
“Touch me, baby. Stroke me off,” I tell him. It’s the only thing that’s gonna slow him down and maybe turn pain into pleasure.  
  
I  _really_  didn’t prepare myself enough. Not remotely.  
  
But I’ll remember for next time. Assuming there is one. And if there’s not, well, Angel-face is giving me enough dick to last the rest of my lifetime.  
  
Sure enough, as he starts stroking me off, his thrusting slows and gentles, till he’s in as far as he’s likely to go without literally tearing me a new asshole.  
  
(Turns out, he’s about as good at reach-arounds as he is at dick-sucking—which isn’t very, but he’s so enthusiastic, so fucking reverent about it, I could easily get off on that alone.)  
  
I’m breathing hard, half in pain, half turned on, and unable to move because I’m too full. I need some time to get used to him. If only whoever gave him the condom had given him some lube, as well. I’m not used to taking guys dry, no matter how hot they are. “Don’t move for a minute, okay?”  
  
“Don’t think I’m gonna  _last_  a minute,” he admits, sounding both pleased and embarrassed about that. “God, I feel like a teenager. I just wanna come then fuck you again.”  
  
At that, my muscles clench up reflexively. I can’t tell whether from anticipation or anxiety, but it makes Angel-face groan again. I open my eyes, see the ugly pattern of the couch, and close them again. I focus on being as loose as possible. My body is made of rubber, and I  _can_  stretch to accommodate even  _his_  ginormous cock.  
  
“Just a little bit longer, baby, then you can move, okay?”  
  
“’Kay . . . ‘kay,” Angel-face says, voice cracking like the teenager he claims to feel like. He keeps stroking me off, till I’m as hard as I’m gonna get without him banging my prostate like a Salvation Army drum. But the odds of him finding my spot on his first fuck ever are slim to none.  
  
This wouldn’t be the first time I got fucked without coming.  
  
“Okay, move. But go.  _Slowly,_ ” I add.  
  
There’s a light, damp sensation between my shoulder blades. I think he just kissed my back.  
  
“Tell me how to make this good for you,” he murmurs on my skin, and I shiver, my body tensing a little before it relaxes even more. Angel-face kisses my left shoulder, then my right. “You looked  _so_  . . .  _beautiful_  when you came. Tell me what I can do to make you look like that again.”  
  
 _Just keep sweet-talking me, for starters,_  I think; but I say: “Before you thrust, try changing up your angle a little. At least until. . . .” I trail off as he pulls out and eases his way back in again. This time, the pain is much more bearable.  
  
“Until?”  
  
I chuckle, clenching around him, this time on purpose. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did last time and it makes Angel-face swear. “Until I start howling like a banshee.”  
  
“Ahhhh. Will do.” Angel-face pulls out slowly, angles his thrust, and pushes back in just as slowly. This time the pain is more like extreme discomfort. The next thrust, going in at a slightly different angle, is much less extreme.  
  
And the next one.  
  
And the next one.  
  
Until the pain is a lingering memory, the discomfort fading away. Through it all, Angel-face doesn’t stop stroking me, doesn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. Granted the rhythm of thrust, stroke, and words don’t even remotely match, but it still feels . . . is  _starting to feel_  kinda good.  
  
And I dunno how he manages it, but Angel-face swipes his thumb across the tip of my cock at the same time as one of his angled thrusts hits pay-dirt.  
  
I howl.  
  
Like a banshee.  
  
“Holy  _fuck_ ,” he breathes, interrupting his flow of  _beautifuls_  and  _sexys_. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding!”  
  
“Oh, God, just like that, baby, just like that! Perfect—“ I gasp, closing my hand around his own to make him stroke faster, bearing down on him to keep him from pulling out, but he does, anyway. It’s pleasure and pain all rolled together in one powerhouse sensation. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. . . .”  
  
“Shhh,” he kisses onto my back. “I won’t.”  
  
Then he’s in me again, at that same exact angle, and I see stars. I see fireworks. Hell, I see my life flash before my eyes, and I realize the last twenty-one years I spent  _not_  being fucked by this man have been a waste.  
  
“God, you’re so fucking good, baby, so good!” I know I’m yelling, probably loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear, but I don’t care. Angel-face is speeding up, riding my ass like a rodeo cowboy, and it feels  _good_. More than good, it feels. . . .  
  
“Harder—fuck me harder,” I grit out, not caring that my forehead is already hitting the arm of the couch on every thrust, or that my ass is starting to hurt again as he really puts his back into it. The world is sparkly, happy goodness, and everything else can just get fucked.  
  
But it won’t be getting fucked as good as  _I_  am.  
  
“Think . . . fuck, I think I’m coming—I think—“ Angel-face grunts and stops stroking me off. Both of his hands clamp down on my hips  _hard_  and he pulls me back against him. Big as he is, I can feel the pulse and throb of him anyway, but when he comes, hot and a  _lot_ , I can feel it even more, like a tuning fork hitting the key of  _goddamn!_  
  
“Oh!” he exclaims, and keeps exclaiming it, pumping his dick—still sort of hard—in and out of me. One of the hands bruising my hips reaches around me again, takes my cock and starts stripping the hell out of it, till  _I_  come again, howling and shouting.  
  


*

  
  
By the time Nash comes again, I’m soft enough to slip out of him without hurting him—and I’m pretty sure I did, at the beginning—and without him even noticing.  
  
When it’s over, I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him close through the shaking and shuddering and swearing. Till he’s just a limp puddle of waiter in my arms, and we slump down to the couch in a comfortable tangle.  
  
Nash groans almost desperately. “ _F-fuck_ , that was. . . .”  
  
“Yeah, it really was,” I agree, laughing a little worriedly. I’ve just literally had the best orgasm of my life, and I had it with another man, on a tacky, slightly gross couch, with a whole restaurant probably listening in.  
  
“I think you just realigned my spine.” Nash starts shifting and wriggling underneath me and I lever myself up onto my hands and knees. He struggles onto his back and looks up at me, a flushed, sweaty, unbelievably beautiful mess.  
  
He smiles wearily—and satedly, I’d like to think—and brushes my hair out of my face. I do the same to him and he leans into my touch with a happy sigh.  
  
“I just popped your cherry,” he informs me, and I laugh again, sitting back on my heels. Nash, meanwhile, is lounging about like he’s never belonged anywhere else but fucked-out, on a dirty couch, with me.  
  
“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”  
  
It just kind of slips out, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t start  _that_  again. You don’t have to keep stroking my . . .  _ego_ , now that you’ve gotten into my pants.”  
  
“That’s not why I was saying it.”  
  
Nash looks confused for a moment then he smirks again, running his finger through the spatters of come on his stomach. He puts that finger in his mouth, sucks it clean, and my cock is suddenly, keenly interested in a repeat performance. Nash’s smirk turns into that shy smile. “If you want another go, all you have to do is say the word, Big Daddy, and I’ll get on my knees, my stomach, my back—my head, if you want me to.”  
  
My cock twitches again—I haven’t had a refractory time this fast since college—with renewed interest. Then I sigh, glancing down my body.  
  
“As much as I’d like to take you up on that, I’ve only got the one cond—ah, fuck!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The condom.” I pull the shredded-looking, soggy remains of the condom off me, and drop it on the floor. It hits with a wet  _plap_. “It broke.”  
  
A beat goes by, and Nash snorts, closing his eyes and scratching his chest. “Well, look at it this way, Sport: at least I’m not ovulating.”  
  
Which startles a laugh out of me, concerned though I am about . . . uh, I guess  _barebacking_  a man I barely know.  
  
Then Nash opens his eyes, gazing up at me serenely. When he looks into my eyes, I find it hard to keep that concern going.  
  
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m clean. I always use protection, and you’re the only guy who’s busted a condom on me.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, squeezing gently. “Feel free to tell me the same.”  
  
I blush. “The last person I had sex with was my ex-wife. That was almost a year ago.”  
  
“Jesus. Well. That’s good enough for me.” He sits up with a groan. “Fuck, I think you broke me.”  
  
“Shit—I’m sorry, I was trying not to hurt you—“ I scramble off the couch; off of Nash, who sighs, looking aggrieved.  
  
“It was just a joke, Handsome? You know? Funny, haha?” Nash rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I’m a little sore, but you’ve got a huge cock, Angel-face. It was to be expected. Now, help me up so we can get dressed.“  
  
I do. Once on his feet, I get my first good look at him: he’s a few inches shorter than me, pale, and built lean. He doesn’t have much in the way of chest hair. What little there is is fine and sparse. His knees and elbows are knobby, and I can just about make out his ribs. He’s a little too thin . . . it makes me want to take him home and feed him. To see him lounge around in  _my_  bed, looking like he never belonged anywhere else. . . .  
  
“See something you like?” Nash executes a model spin, giving me great view of his ass. My cock twitches again, and I grin.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”  
  
Nash blushes.  _All_  over.  
  
“Let’s get dressed and get out of here before my manager catches us. Or before your friends start getting worried,” he says, his eyes skittering everywhere but mine. I step close to him and stare at him until he finally looks at me, wary and questioning.  
  
“Look, whaddaya say we . . . I dunno, go out for coffee, some time--”  
  
“’Some time’?” Nash’s eyes narrow. “Jeez. Don’t put yourself out on my account.”  
  
I put my hands on his shoulders and pull him close. Till our foreheads are touching. “If you’d let me finish, I’d have said  _some time after your shift_.”  
  
Some of that wary look leaves his face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”  
  
“Believe me when I say that I look forward to getting to know you.”  
  
Nash smiles. Then he grins. Then he smirks. “Sheee-it. You’d say anything to get out of karaoke, wouldn’t you?”  
  


*

  
  
In the men’s room, exactly four feet and one wall away, Greg Eames and Arthur Goldstein get to their feet.  
  
“What did I tell you?” Eames says, pointing to the vent at which they’d been eavesdropping. “Our boy’s a five beer-queer.”  
  
Arthur sniffs, taking out his wallet. “I suppose I’ll never hear the end of it,” he sighs, taking out two fifties and holding them out to Eames.  
  
But Eames waves him away, grinning. “Now-now, Arthur-darling, you know good and well I don’t want your money.”  
  
Arthur sighs again. “Well, I can’t imagine what you’d want in its place, Mr. Eames.”  
  
“Mmm, I’m certain you  _can_.” Eames steps closer to Arthur, who for a wonder doesn’t back away. “I want to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by Dominic and his little playmate.”  
  
“Look, Eames—“  
  
“No,  _you_  look, Arthur.  _We kissed_.” Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s chest and slides them up till his arms are wrapped loosely around his neck. Arthur’s own hands settle on Eames’s hips possessively, like they were never meant to be anywhere else. “You must realize I’ve been in love with you for quite some time . . . surely you don’t mean to make me wait any longer?”  
  
Staring at Eames’s collarbone, Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Eames . . . I’m not easy to get along with. I don’t  _do_  feelings. I don’t have a sense of humor. I probably drink too much. I’m a member of the NRA, a fact that has frightened off more than a few of my lovers. I’m overly competitive. I’m a Log Cabin Republican—I voted McCain twice. Would’ve voted for him three times if he hadn’t picked Loony-Toons McJesus-Freak as his running mate. I’m allergic to cats, and I know you have one. I top exclusively. I get very jealous,  _very_  easily. I’m—“  
  
“ _Arthur_.” Eames interrupts, laughing and pulling Arthur close. He practically purrs when Arthur’s hands slide around to his ass and dark brown eyes meet his own warily. “Shut up and kiss me, darling.”  
  
For once, Arthur does as Eames tells him.


End file.
